Encore
by HousePlant
Summary: What if it's not always Wilson's fault? Short foray into one of his broken marriages. HouseWilson Friendship fic. Mild profanity ahem Oneshot probably.


**OR Parallels of Comfort**

You wake up next to her and try to remember a time your bed was empty, but you can't. There was no time before her; you can't imagine one after her and hope you'll never have to.

You close your eyes and try to hear her heart over yours; it always seems to beat a little faster, a little louder. You close your eyes and wait; for the first rays of sunshine to reach your lids and tell you when she rises. Listen closer…soon there is a muted crack of bones popping into place and you can see her in your mind: graceful, catlike on the same Egyptian cotton she silently persuaded you to buy two weeks ago—a touch here, glance there and the small curl in the corners of her mouth—but time with her goes by so erratically you think it could have been two years.

The mattress creaks but you don't dare open your eyes more than a crack. Just to watch her put something on before going into the bathroom.

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"Oh James… you know I'm the mother type. I can't. I'm not ready." "…yet" she adds quickly, tentatively and you know she only does it for your sake.

"When?" You don't even want children. Not really. Especially not with the job you have, yet it occurs to you that this may be the only thing keeping your marriage from falling apart.

Then she smiles that secretive smile. The same one she gave you three days after you proposed. That pitiful smile. How along ago was that? You were sure she would say no. But she said yes, and there was a wedding: it was beautiful _-she was beautiful-_, there were people _–of course-_ and the flowers were… _-does it really matter?-_ fresh. But everything was off that day: time stood still, surrounding the garden in a heavy fog that seemed to be reserved only for the two of you. She looked happy and yet you knew she wasn't.

"Just… give me a little more time."

Time? Time is something you're both running out of. It's been almost 5 years since you met; 5 years, 19 days and 22 hours since you first laid eyes her… but who's counting?

Her gentle kiss breaks you out of your reverie, and you wish you didn't have to think any more of it than just a kiss: so you make yourself stop thinking, if only for a moment.

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"You know I love you…" before you say another word you hear something breaking, shards of purple tinted glass scatter into the room through the open bedroom door.

"It's always I love you, I love you, I fucking LOVE YOU! What if I DON'T? Huh _Jimmy?_ What then!"

You leave the house, slam the car door, jam the keys in the ignition and rev the engine- not sure of where you're going, or for how long, you're pushing the gas pedal like there's no tomorrow. You consider turning right, taking the easy way out and hiding out at House's place again. He wouldn't say anything, just hand you a beer while you help yourself to some pizza, and you'd spend the evening waiting for the feel of his couch sinking under the pressure of your body as your mind sinks into a dreamless sleep.

Somehow, you know this is wrong. Even though this is how everything usually goes: the husband yells, the wife cries, and he leaves her. But _you_ didn't yell, you didn't say anything, _you_ didn't break the purple vase, so _you're_ not supposed to leave; she is. _She's _not supposed to cry. You are.

So you drive around the block , once, twice, three times; until you've lost count and the steering wheel automatically turns left, left again, and again, over and over for what seems like the thousands time and then right, finally, as you shift into park in your driveway.

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You enter the bedroom to see her sitting on the edge of the mattress; spent, surrounded by piles of clothing –yours, hers, possibly everything from the closet—and the brilliant edges of broken glass. She looks like a tired angel waiting for someone to save her and you're torn between attraction and repulsion.

"You didn't leave" it isn't a question because what you really want to say is _why are you still here_, but the words seem venomous even in your head and that's where you keep them.

She turns her to face you, eyes flashing for a second before the emotion in them melts away and all they seem to be are muddied pools of hazel light.

You wait for a word, for her to acknowledge that it's not over. All either one of you has say is _I'm sorry._

_I could save this. Fix it again. _You think.

She looks at you, as if grappling for something. Seconds pass and finally she turns away. Once more it seems the silence has a life of its own; so you don't disturb it. There is no sound made as you close the front door behind you, and none of an engine starting, because this time you don't take the car. Instead you walk, and when the time comes, you turn right.


End file.
